Making Your Writing Meaningful in a Meaningless World
On death, despair, and determination
If I were to drop dead right now, everything would go on as it is.
Some would mourn my passing, but sooner or later, they too would have to move on. Their memories of me would blur, and still, the skies would roll on.
In my brief lifetime, I’d have shaken no mountains, rustled no trees — a mere man burdened with much to lose. And in passing, all would be lost — even the cherished words would dissipate with time.
Was it all for nothing? What a farce!
And yet, here I am, even as the hopeful illusions in me fade, the fire rages!
What is this conundrum, I ask you? Is mortality not the great tamer of man?
Could it be that some men seek to challenge even the divine realms? The gods peer down from their mountain to inquire, ‘Is there no frontier to his ambition? Such foolhardy pride!’
And yet, here I am, scorching myself willingly at the crucible of death and creation. Each victory over the banal is a testament to my affirmation of life.
What if the mountains remain unmoved and the trees unstirred? I am not a puppet of nature but a sculptor of ideas, an architect building my stairway to heaven. My creation, unasked for but born of necessity, is a dance in the face of the nihilistic void.
The world may seem unappreciative, lost in the fog of the mundane, oblivious to the mud that’s encrusted their eyes. The cosmos itself may not clamor for my creation, but these words are my flaming torch, bearing the Promethean legacy in stride.
If these words can fuel discussions, they can enlighten minds and ignite movements. They are a testament to my existence, the ripples I create in the fabric of reality.
Is it a farce, you ask?
Only if distorted through the lens of external validation, through the hunger for applause and the fear of oblivion. Cast away such chains! Critics, admirers, agents of envy — do not be distracted by their insignificant whispers.
Creation is a sacred act!
Let your work be a monument to your passions and rebellions, built from the stones of your triumphs and despairs. Let it be a garden where your flowers bloom in the face of cosmic obscurity, where the winds of time cannot wither the beauty you’ve nurtured.
The world does not need your creation, true. But you are not the servant of the world’s needs.
You are the harbinger of flames that light up the unknown. In your hands, the unneeded becomes a marvel.
So, unleash your creation upon the masses. Let it be a testament to your will to live, a saga etched into the tectonic plates of the Earth.
And as the curtains fall, ensure that your creation reverberates through the silent halls, a lingering melody of a spirit that dared to sing in the darkness.
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